O Father, Where Art Thou
by frayyer
Summary: His first order had been to rescue Dean Winchester from Perdition. Now, his personal mission was to save the younger man, no matter what. Set after 4.16, sort of a missing scene. Part two up now.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, sadly.

**A/N:** Set shortly after 4.16. Rated M for a few curse words and drinking later. Not beta'd so all mistakes are mine, etc. Also, I'd just like to throw out the fact that I'm a Christian. With that said, enjoy the fic as I slowly work my way towards Hell! :)

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"Faith does not make things easier, Dean. It makes things possible," Castiel stated in a low voice.

His eyes followed the younger man's hands as he lifted a plain black shirt over his head gingerly, grimacing as stiff and sore muscles were stretched. Castiel knew Dean should remain in the hospital longer, had told him as much, but the man wouldn't listen. He had let the argument drop when Dean turned on him with a cold, furious glance and clenched fists. There was another battle he was more focused on, though – a battle he was not willing to lose. He already knew how the battle between Heaven and Hell would end, but it was Dean he was most concerned about. He would not lose _Dean._

"Makes what possible, exactly?" Dean asked angrily. His voice hard, yet weary. "I know you've been praying to your god. Hell, I've even tried it once or twice. But the only possibility I see is us getting our asses kicked six ways from Sunday because you feathery choir boys are too chicken shit to do anything and your god obviously doesn't care enough to stop all this himself," he practically shouted, his breath now coming in short gasps.

Castiel winced. He winced at the name calling and he winced at the pain he knew Dean was feeling. Most of all, though, he winced at the utter despair that was lying underneath all of Dean's harsh words – despair that could no longer be hidden from the angel.

Most human emotions were still a foreign concept to Castiel, but he could empathize with Dean. This whole situation had shaken the very core of his being; doubts, concerns, thoughts, and questions had all crossed the angel's mind that would never before have done so and it had rocked his world in the most disturbing way. But he had seen Heaven, he had witnessed miracles, and he had beheld the glory of His Father's creations. Because of this, Castiel was able to retain his faith. He could still believe.

Dean, however, had not experienced any of that. He had been exposed to every varying degree of evil since a young age. Castiel knew Dean had never been a man of faith when it came to the Holy, but he had always had faith in family and his purpose and, more importantly, himself. That faith was now vanishing at a rapid pace. Castiel didn't know what he could do about Dean's family. His only living relative was walking down a dark and dangerous path that the angel would not dare follow. But he was determined to restore Dean's faith in himself, if nothing else. His first order had been to rescue Dean Winchester from Perdition. Now, his personal mission was to save the younger man, no matter what.

"Many of my brethren have perished, Dean, have – fallen," Castiel stuttered. "I know what it feels like to lose your family, to see innocent people die. I also know what it's like to doubt yourself and hesitate in your beliefs. But you must listen to me, Dean," Castiel insisted, taking a step towards him where he leaned against the edge of the hospital bed. Dean stepped back. Whether the move was automatic or intentional, Castiel didn't know. He didn't care. He just needed Dean to understand. "You must have faith."

"My mother is dead, my father is dead, my brother might as well be dead," Dean said, his voice breaking. "I've killed every kind of monster there is only to witness innocent people die. Thousands, hundreds of thousands more _will_ die because you won't help me. No one will help me. Why should I have faith in something or someone that's content with sitting on the sidelines while the fucking Apocalypse is right around the corner?"

"I-"

"Don't, Cas," Dean interrupted before the angel could say anything more. "Just go, please. Better yet, I'm going to leave. You can stay here." He moved over to the chair across from the bed and grabbed his coat, holding it tightly in his hand. He walked swiftly towards the door. Before exiting, though, he paused in the doorway, his hand on the frame. He didn't turn back to look at Castiel, just stood with his head down. After a few seconds he straightened up and left without another word or glance.

Castiel didn't know what else to do. He silently watched the younger man walk away. His shoulders sagged and he let out a frustrated sigh.

This would not be the end of this.

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The next part should be up in a few days. REVIEWS would be greatly appreciated! And they might sped up things a bit ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I thought this would be done in two chapters, but it's looking more like three now. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter :) I hope you enjoy this one as well. FYI - a bit of drinking and lots of cursing ahead (f-bombs ahoy). Lyrics below are from the song On The Cross by The Used and more will be featured later. Anyways. Here it is, cheers!

(**Disclaimer:** Still not mine.)

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_Who would guess you were the chosen one?  
The right place, you were the firstborn son.  
Once questioned stable state of mind,  
To spend some time in the gutter.  
A full collapse and caving in,  
Just wait for faith to kick in._

Dean stepped outside the hospital doors and inhaled sharply. The fresh air felt good in his lungs. There was nothing recycled and processed about this air, unlike the air that circulated throughout hospital vents - air that smelled of antiseptic and death and sadness. He hated hospitals.

Dean debated calling a taxi. It wouldn't have been that bad of a walk back to the motel, but in his current condition, he didn't think he was up to the trek. But he didn't want to go back to the motel anyway. Partly because he knew it would be empty, but mostly because he just needed to think and he didn't want any distractions. Castiel was certainly a distraction, which was why he released himself from the hospital early despite the doctor's protests. The angel hadn't looked to be moving, so if he wasn't going to leave than Dean was. The empty motel room would be a distraction because it would make him think about Sam and Ruby and what Sam was doing with Ruby. He didn't need any of that.

What he did need, though, was a drink. He glanced to the left of the street and then to the right. He noticed a Bud Light sign hanging in a window about half a block down and checked his watch. With his mind set, he headed off in that direction. It was nearly midnight on a Tuesday. He didn't think the place would be too crowded.

When he reached the red-bricked two story building, he peaked inside and sure enough, it was mostly vacant. A handful of people were spread out amongst the tables and booths. He opened the door and walked in, squinting a little from the bright halogen lights. Most of the seating was covered with green upholstery. The walls were wood paneled and adorned with black and white posters of classic Hollywood movies – some he recognized and some he didn't.

Dean took a seat at the bar. He nodded at the bar tender who had greeted him when he walked in. She was a middle aged woman with long blond hair and striking green eyes. She walked over to him and rested her elbows on the counter top in front of Dean.

"Evening, sweetie. You sure do look like you could use a drink. What can I get ya?"

Dean smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I _feel_ like I could use a drink. Give me a scotch, please. Clean." It wasn't his usual, but he wanted something heavy. Something that would help him forget all the shit he just went though.

"Sure thing, honey." She grabbed a glass and a bottle off the back shelf, and poured a generous amount. Turning back around, she slid the glass into his waiting hands. "Anything else I can get you?"

"No, that'll be all for now," Dean said, tipping his head in thanks.

"No problem. Just holler if you need anything else later."

"Will do."

Dean watched her move back toward the other end of the bar where a middle aged man with salt and pepper hair sat. They started chatting quietly and she kept her hands busy drying glasses with a hand towel. Dean shifted his focus back to his drink, swirling the cup around in a circle. The amber liquid was mesmerizing and he let himself get caught up in watching it slosh around the glass for a few minutes.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, he lifted the drink and took a long sip. He felt the liquid burn its way down his throat until it settled in his stomach, warmth spreading throughout his whole body. His fingertips tingled and it felt like the air in the room had just gotten a few degrees hotter.

He settled the glass back on the bar top and let his mind wander. His thoughts were all over the place. Only fragments of coherent thoughts and feelings jumped out at him. Alcohol probably wasn't the best thing to drink in his current state of mind, but he knew he couldn't think about any of the things he needed to think about without at least a little liquid courage. _There's irony for you, _he thought to himself.

He didn't even know where to begin. Did he start with Sam and the things he'd been doing lately, the person he was becoming? Did he start with Castiel or Uriel or the big man who supposedly lived upstairs? Maybe he should start with himself and try to figure out at what point in his life he had fucked up so badly that someone decided he deserved the current situation he found himself unwillingly stuck in.

Dean tried. He had really tried to be a good son and a good brother, he tried saving as many innocent people as he possibly could, and he tried to be a good person in general. Had all that trying been in vain? His parents were dead, his brother was turning into a – he couldn't even think the word - and it was his fault that the fucking Apocalypse was coming.

_Fuck,_ he thought. He lifted the glass and took another sip, nearly slamming it on the counter after.

He mind was consumed with thoughts of _what if_. What if he had tried harder? What if he had held out just a little longer? What if he had abandoned this way of life before it became too late? But then, Sammy had tried that and look how well that went.

Before Dean had been sent to the Pit, his body had been covered with scars. Bullet wounds, knife wounds - you name it, he had it. He had quite a few scars on the inside, too. When he had been 'raised from Perdition' as Castiel had said, his body was clean on the outside, with the exception of the hand print. The scares he bore on the inside, though, had remained. And lately, he had only been adding to them.

He didn't know how much more he could take before he cracked. He was hanging onto such a thin thread now.

He couldn't even let himself think about having faith in the higher power that Cas does. He believes in monsters and evil and bad luck because he's seen it all. Been there, done that and has the hand print and mental scars to prove it. He's never been able to put faith in something he can't see or touch. Now that Sam is headed in a complete opposite direction than him and all those feathery choir boys would rather stand around than help, he's beginning to lose faith in family and any kind of possible heavenly guidance. He thinks even, that maybe Heaven and God and whatever else should get some negative points because he never believed before and now the thought is just plain ludicrous. Dean 1, God Almighty -1.

Lifting the glass one last time, he downs the rest of his drink in one gulp. It burns all the way down and he nearly coughs, but he holds it together. He closes his eyes and lets out a breath, feeling a headache coming on.

"Dean."

The name sounds from just to his right. It's so utterly unexpected that he jumps and his heart seizes in his chest. His eyes fly open and he looks in the direction of the voice.

"What the_ fuck_!" he shouts. "Goddammit Cas, don't you ever fucking do that again!"

The angel is standing there, tan trench coat and all, his head cocked just slightly to the left. He has the decency to look a little ashamed, but doesn't say anything. He continues to stand there and stare at Dean.

Once Dean's heart beat slows down and he can finally get a decent amount of air into his lungs, he looks menacingly at the angel and then notices something.

He's no longer in the bar. The smell of the beach, of sand and ocean, fill up senses. He can taste salt in the air. The sound of the ocean crashing onto land comes from behind him and he turns. He realizes they're standing on the edge of a cliff, the ocean a hundred yards or so below them. He looks back at Castiel, his expression a mixture of anger and disbelief and shock.

"We need to talk, Dean," the angel says.

Back in the hospital, Dean hadn't wanted to talk. Now though, is a different story.

"Damn right we do," Dean agrees.


End file.
